


You Could Save Lives, But You Couldn't Save Mine

by howtogetanfindrama



Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Hamilton - Miranda (Broadway Cast) RPF
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hope you like, My first angst, ties back to now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2019-01-06 18:26:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12216420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howtogetanfindrama/pseuds/howtogetanfindrama
Summary: What is a legacy?Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?





	You Could Save Lives, But You Couldn't Save Mine

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first angsty fic... Hope you like it.  
> I tried to make it sound sophisticated.

_My name is Phillip,_

_I am a poet,_

_I wrote this poem just to show it,_

_and I just turned 9,_

_**You could save lives but you couldn't save mine.** _

Alexander rose from slumber, sweat dripping down his forehead, back, arms... He was soaked to the bone. He couldn't unsee it. His son, gripping his chest, bleeding to death, blaming him.

Alexander was stupid to have given his son those pistols. What was he thinking? He knew what he had done. He knew it was his fault that Phillip was dead. Eliza knew it, too, but she was too kind to blame him now. When Phillip had died, they were both heartbroken. But it was a new kind of heartbroken. Not the pain when your love betrays you (which he had), nor the kind of pain when your beloved leaves you for the summer (which she felt), but like a part of you was missing. Alexander had two pieces missing. He needed his son but now, more than ever, he needed his wife. He couldn't do this alone.

Alexander rose from the ground where he slept, glancing over at Eliza fast asleep. 

So peaceful, like an angel. What a sight to someone who was dead inside, nothing left to cherish. At least he could see her as happy as she was when she was asleep. It seemed, now, as if she wasn't hurting.

Alex quietly stepped over to the chair where his coat hung. He placed it over shoulders, then went to retrieve his shoes. Suddenly, he heard the sheets move. Eliza rose from the bed and glided towards him.

"Alexander?" she whispered in the dead of the night. "What are you doing?"

"I woke from a terror," he said. "I'm going for a walk."

"Alexander, stop," she said. "I know where you're going. You need to stop visiting his grave. He's dead, Alexander."

"I know," he replied. "And it's my fault." Eliza sighed and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Dearest, don't say that," she said. "We all make mistakes in our life."

"Yes, but whenever I make mistakes someone always ends up dead." Alexander thought of Laurens, the letter of his death, the day it arrived. He thought of the thousands of soldiers. Perished. Families that they had left behind. And then, he thought, of his son. His first child, whom he swore to protect, to raise with this great country. He was so young, and he would never live to see what life had in store for him.

Everyone around his seemed to fall. His mother, his cousin, his neighbors, his friends. All he had left was his work, and that was surely over. After this, he didn't have the credibility. After all this, he didn't even have the desire. And now, he thought, surely Eliza would fall victim to this strange curse that he bore. He couldn't imagine what would happen. With every prayer he felt he had, he hoped that she would abandon him long before there was ever a chance for her to die. 

What does a man do when everything that once made his life great now only brings him pain and sadness? What was he to do?

If he were to die, by his own hand or by that of another, where would he leave his life? True, Eliza would live in comfort and with plenty of funds to supply herself and the children, but what of this country? What of his plans? What of his legacy?

This burned in his mind like a raging fire, never fading always there. It plagued him, and he grew terrified of it. What of his story? Who would remember him?  Would this country fail?

Who would tell his story? Who would be left to tell his story?

 

A young man woke in a hotel room. Over two-hundred years later, a man named Alexander Hamilton was briefly mentioned in history classes across America, the great unfinished symphony. An unlikely book sat on the bedside table. It was warm outside, but that didn't matter. What did matter was that the man who lay in that bed would become a messenger in this story. One man helped build a nation. One woman helped build his legacy. Now, this man would set the ball rolling and bring to life his story. He was the unlikeliest of people to do this, but

_you have no control who lives, who dies, **who tells your story.**_


End file.
